


When the Sun Goes Down

by SilentSinger



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Blood, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Recreational Drug Use, Violence, gratuitous pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 13:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11647623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: An alternate scenario for S02E02: Mumbai Sky Tower.He's a scumbag, don't you know.





	When the Sun Goes Down

The fucking media. Never got vampires quite right. Some were close, granted, but these woe-is-me-brooding-is-fashionable fucking emo types? Try again, pal. Being a vampire is no chore; being a vampire is pleasure. Interminable pleasure. Because what the hell else is there to do with eternal life except fuck and get fucked? A guy just has to know how to procure it, and Cassidy – for all his earthly sins – excelled at procuring it.

Cassidy has seen them all. From _Nosferatu, Dracula_ and all the fucking Hammer sequels, every Anne Rice adaptation (although Lestat was the personification of everything Cass loathed about vampire interpretations), right the way through to modern media’s take on vampirism: _From Dusk till Dawn, Blade_ (if Cass could kick that much arse, he’d be happy), fucking _Twilight, True Blood_ (they got the hedonism down, at the very least), and even _Buffy the Vampire Slayer._

Cass enjoyed _Buffy,_ though. Well, Spike, anyhow. Definitely not that despondent bastard Angel. Angel was the embodiment of Catholicism in Cassidy’s eyes: Mourn everything. Thou shalt not fornicate for pleasure for fear of losing your soul. He’d often wax lyrical about this very postulation to whomever would listen – whether they were listening or not.

Old Spike, though. What a fucking prophet. He’d hit the nail right on the head at one point, when he’d stated that:

_“Blood is life, lackbrain. Why do you think we eat it? It’s what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead.”_

Now, Cass might have been off his proverbial pickle on two Mitsubishi Turbos and half a gram of Charlie (there’s a high probability he even had someone on his dick; he can never quite remember) when he first heard that line, but it resonated all the same. Oh, the ’90s were a time, were they not? Like a ’60s revival but with neon and geometric shapes. What a fucking shitshow.

_Blood is life, lackbrain. Blood is life._ Preach it, brother.

Cassidy had always prided himself on his restraint with regards to matters of exsanguination. Well, perhaps ‘prided’ was a little ambitious, but at the very least he’d generally endeavoured to sweep any notions of bloodlust-for-the-sake-of-bloodlust under the carpet. He’d down a few pints of Guinness, snort a line, smoke a bowl – anything to keep those urges at bay. But _blood is life,_ and sometimes those urges cannot be ignored.

****

Jesse Custer, for Cassidy, was one great big _urge._ I mean really, have you seen the fella? He’d lost count of the occasions he’d worked himself into a frenzied and satisfying climax – imagining himself brought to his knees, as Mr. Tall, Dark and Holy performs a special baptism, just for him. Bet he tastes fucking fantastic.

Take now, for example. Fiore had been placated – to a degree, and Cass was still very far from his speedball comedown. After finding a dejected-looking Jesse drinking alone at the bar – apparently Tulip had decided against their impromptu wedding; Cassidy had tried not to look too elated at this news, and probably failed – Cass had taken it upon himself to cheer the miserable bastard up.

Cassidy’s deluxe cheer-up package had consisted of a bar crawl, enough mezcal to floor a baby elephant, and a good old-fashioned, balls-to-the-wall back-alley fist fight with a bunch of complete strangers. Naturally.

Watching Jesse fight is always a treat. The man has the instincts of a fox, the grace of a gazelle and the ferocity of a tiger, and watching him go to town on these redneck mouth-breathers is nothing short of poetry. Jesse Custer fights like there’s nothing on God’s green earth that he enjoys more; he fights like each blow to the next hapless eejit’s face is his last. Jesse Custer fights like fucking _Blade._

Bones break and teeth hit the floor like loose change. Dustbin lids are used as makeshift shields, and at one point, Cassidy clubs one of the poor blokes around the head with the fetid remains of a ham hock. Jesse’s utilisation of their surroundings is far less crude in nature: he dodges blows as fists hit walls and knuckles break, and he clambers and leaps from fire escapes – delivering flying kicks that would make Jackie Chan envious. One by one they all hit the floor, writhing and moaning – cradling limbs with protruding bone, and nursing busted noses, which stream blood like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Cassidy doesn’t partake in these delectably sanguine hors d’oeuvres, however, that is until another one of the cunts appears from seemingly nowhere, brandishing a switchblade, and manages to take Jesse completely off-guard. Cass doesn’t think twice. He leaps at the fellow, aiming straight for the jugular – which is, Cass muses as his teeth penetrate yielding flesh, another thing vampire movies never seem to get right. Vampires don’t sip daintily from their quarry – an Armagnac in one hand while Marilyn Manson plays in the background – real vampires go for the throat, and they fucking tear it out. Cassidy does just that.

The unfortunate man howls as flesh is torn asunder and blood sprays from his carotid, and he hits the floor with a dull thud, leaving Jesse and Cassidy to face one another in silence.

“Thanks,” says Jesse, his breathing ragged and the look on his face a mixture of shock and awe. It occurs to Cassidy, in this moment, that with the exception of him burning up in the sun, Jesse has never witnessed Cassidy actually _being_ a creature of the night.

“Vino de la carne,” Cassidy replies, as his scrapes and bruises begin to vanish right before their eyes. “Finest healthcare system in the world, Padre.”

Silence falls once more as they both regain their breath and composure (in Cassidy’s case, just the latter). They’re a complete mess, and Jesse, for once in his life, looks utterly dishevelled. His usually perfectly coiffed hair is now a tangle of sweat and grime, and it sticks out at all angles like some sort of fucking anime hero. His clerical collar is hanging limply from his neck, and there’s a particularly nasty looking gash on his lower lip, which is oozing blood in a luxurious stream of crimson and coagulating in the man’s designer stubble. He looks – to Cass – like one great big motherfucker of an _urge._

Cassidy’s shirt is torn to shreds, and he wipes his blood-soaked face clean with its tattered remnants, realising as he does so that being shirtless in a dark alley with one Jesse Custer – looking the way Jesse Custer looks in this moment – is perhaps not his wisest manoeuvre. What he needs to do right now is get back to the hotel, take a shower, jerk off, say a few Hail Marys and forget any of this ever happened. Except-

“What’s it like, Cass? Do different people have different... y’know, flavours?” Jesse ventures, fixing Cassidy with a look of mild apprehension and fascination. He appears, for all intents and purposes, genuinely interested.

Cassidy, for once in his life, is struck completely dumb. He doesn’t want to explain to Jesse that human blood ranges in its flavour from that of week-old offal to the honeyed-sweetness of a fine Tokay. He doesn’t want to enthuse about the sense of power and prurience he achieves when that slick, warm fluid passes down his gullet, filling his every extremity with a sensation akin to coming up on some A-grade MDMA, and he certainly doesn’t want to preach that _blood is life, lackbrain._

“It’s... it’s alright, I s’pose. Means to an end, really. Not much else,” Cassidy replies, praying internally that he’s coming across as authentic. “Tastes like shite,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Now, that I don’t believe,” says Jesse, as he draws himself closer. “I saw your face when you ripped that guy’s throat out. That weren’t no look of disgust, Cassidy.”

Cassidy is struck with a sudden and acute awareness of just how close Jesse is. The discordant moans and whines of the wounded men nearby become little more than white noise; if Cass had a heartbeat, that’s all he’d be able to hear. He should have known this might happen, having witnessed Jesse’s lascivious demeanour post bar-brawl on the very first day they’d met. Fighting was foreplay for the fella, no question about it. That said, if Cassidy was truly honest with himself – a trait that eluded him on multiple occasions – his plan had worked perfectly. _Genius, Cass, ol’ boy. Genius._

But when it came down to it, could he really do that to Tulip?

The answer, as Jesse poses his next question, is a resounding “yes”.

“Now, I’m curious, Cassidy,” Jesse continues, touching a finger to his injured lip and observing Cassidy’s inelegant reaction: a cross between a growl and a whimper – inhuman in nature, even for a vampire – with mild amusement, “as to what you reckon I might taste like?”

“Jaysus, Padre. Look, we’re drunk, and-” Cassidy’s attempted reasoning falls upon deaf ears as Jesse grabs him by both arms and slams him against the nearest wall, and Cass winces at the sensation of rough, cool stone against his naked back. “We- we should go back to the hotel and get some nice black coffee- and- oh, _shite-”_

Christ, he’s too fucking close. They’re mere inches apart and Cassidy can smell it now, smell that sweet _vino de la carne_ over the liquor-infused warmth of Jesse’s breath. And fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Those rich, brown eyes and that petulant, full-lipped mouth – he could be a fucking model. _I love it when a plan comes together. Fucking genius._

“Go on then, Cassidy,” Jesse breathes, moving closer still, his erection unabashedly apparent as it presses into Cassidy’s thigh. “Taste it.”

And taste it Cassidy does. Their lips meet _at fucking last,_ and sweet Lord above, Jesse tastes of fucking peaches and cream, and months upon months of silent longing. He tastes like everything in the universe is coming up Cassidy; he tastes like utmost sin and everything that’s right with the world, simultaneously. He tastes like this moment must never, ever end.

But end it must, and as their lips part, Jesse utters three, simple words that reaffirm Cassidy’s faith in every deity there ever was.

“Turn around, Cassidy.”

“There’s people!” Cass protests, eyeing the wounded remnants of their night of carnage not ten feet away.

“You don’t strike me as the shy type,” Jesse replies, with a smirk. “Besides, I think they’re otherwise engaged.”

He’s right, of course, and Cassidy complies, hissing as Jesse gracelessly yanks down his jeans, catching his erection in the process. “Easy, Padre.”

As it transpires, “Easy, Padre” is not in Jesse Custer’s vocabulary, and all Cass can do is squeeze his eyes tight and bear down, as Jesse presses inside with his spit-slicked cock. He wishes he could’ve seen that fucking thing before he’d agreed to this, because Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that thing must have some fucking girth.

Cassidy feebly claws at the wall as Jesse gathers momentum; he scrapes his fingernails until they bleed, but Christ almighty – this feels fucking incredible. Jesse’s hands grip Cassidy’s hips as he thrusts harder, faster, deeper – a litany of coarse profanity spilling from his lips that no ecclesiastical fella should ever utter, and Cass takes it, rides it out like a champ as his own filthy crescendo reverberates around their surroundings in a libertine cacophony of moans, groans and _“Fuck, yes, Padre.”_

Jesse’s stamina is to be commended, and Cass feels as though he might very well split in two, as the preacher hammers without mercy – never once diminishing in his breakneck pace. Tears sting at Cassidy’s eyes as his face is pressed against the coarse surface of the brick wall – pleasure and pain overriding one another intermittently. Jesse doesn’t relent, and Cassidy doesn’t want him to.

He’s too fucking close, though. In truth he’s been half a beat from blowing his load since he tasted that handsome bastard’s sweet, sweet vino – so when Jesse finally wraps a hand around his aching cock it doesn’t take long before he comes with an almighty _“Fuuuuck!”,_ as his semen sprays the wall like some X-rated Jackson Pollock.

Jesse follows suit in a blasphemous tirade, one hand clutching onto Cassidy’s shoulder as he climaxes, pumping further and further into Cassidy’s abused arse until he’s sated at last.

****

As they gather their things and survey the havoc they’re about to leave behind – ten or so injured men (those who aren’t unconscious, at least) – who really did not need to witness the indecent spectacle they just witnessed, Cassidy reflects upon the fact that this was, without question, one of his better ideas – in the grand old scheme of things.

 

What a fucking night.

_Genius, Cass, ol’ boy. Genius._

**Author's Note:**

> If your question is: Who snorts coke and drops X to watch television? The answer is: Cassidy. Cassidy does.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Got a hankering to see Cass brandishing that ham hock? Click here and be sated!](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/166643845747/rissalf-bones-break-and-teeth-hit-the-floor)


End file.
